


Cathexis

by leastamongequals



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leastamongequals/pseuds/leastamongequals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal survive the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am still reeling from the finale. It was beautiful and satisfying in its own right, yet I refuse to accept that Hannibal and Will are gone. The last scene was left open to interpretation. Here is mine.

A tree branch. In what he'd been certain was the end for them both, their lives had been saved in the hackneyed manner of numerous Hollywood movies and cartoons of his youth. Hannibal laughed mirthlessly and tightened his hold. Will was silent and still, a dead weight in the arm encircling his torso. His breath came in loud, discordant gasps. Hannibal felt such a great surge of relief that tears began to blur his vision.

"Will, I need you to stay awake. Focus on my voice: your name is Will Graham. It is 10:58 in the evening, and we are in -"

"D-don't. Don't t-talk to me. Please." Will coughed and groaned, closing his fingers over Hannibal's arm in the darkness. "Let go. Let me go!" Slick with blood, Will struggled to prise himself from the Ripper's vicegrip. Hannibal was silent as Will dug his nails into the soft skin of his forearm, grunting with the effort. When it was clear to him that Hannibal was not going to let go, Will bit him, sinking his teeth in. He tasted blood and sweat, and he did not let go.

Hannibal grunted. He regarded Will calmly, bathed in blood - his own, Hannibal's, and Dolarhyde's - and shuddered at the sight of it and the mad rage glowing in his bright cerulean eyes. Hannibal pressed his cheek against Will's, exerting pressure on his mutilated flesh. Dolarhyde's knife had very nearly bisected Will's ear, leaving a pitiable mangled mess above a half-Glasgow smile. As if Georgia Madchen's spirit had possessed the Dragon, and left a job half-done.

Will held on, and Hannibal pressed harder, until he had pinned Will's head against the bluff. Tears filled Will's eyes and fell freely as Hannibal's cheek grated against his, every wave of pain an assault on his senses. It was becoming exceedingly difficult to maintain consciousness. Hannibal did not relent until Will was shaking, until he opened his mouth and screamed. In that moment, Hannibal headbutted Will so hard that he almost passed out himself.

Will's head lolled. Hannibal shifted Will's weight, pushing his body flush against the bluff as he riffled through his pockets for the knife. He found it, cutting his finger on the blade. He squeezed the blade in his hands, feeling a perverse satisfaction at the pain in his palm. It was excruciating, but it kept him oriented. Without Will's protestations, Hannibal could figure out how they were going to survive. 

He did not think it strange that Will had tried to kill him, kill them both. If their roles had been reversed, he would have done the same.

Poor, sweet, insecure Will. Hannibal lifted himself onto the tree branch, thick and strong enough to support his weight. He pulled Will up gingerly after him, laying him over the branch beside him. The wood groaned beneath their combined weight. Hannibal stabbed the knife into the cliff wall and reached out in the darkness until he felt a rock. Digging his fingers into the dirt around it, Hannibal eased off of the branch, retaining a tenous grip on the knife.

He steeled himself, clenched the rock until it cut his skin. He pulled the knife out of the cliff, and for a heartstopping moment felt himself slip. He swiftly stabbed an area several feet above him, and breathed a sigh of relief. He embedded the toes of his cordovans into the soil, anchored to the crag. He could do this: he had to. There was no choice. Without thought, Hannibal began to recite the words of an ancient prayer in a language as dead as his faith in a loving god:

"Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae,  
vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.  
Ad te clamamus, exsules filii Evae,  
ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes  
in hac lacrimarum valle. . ."

As a child, Hannibal had had no concept of the meaning. The words sounded vaguely similar to his mother's speech, but she had discouraged him from ever trying to translate it himself. When she explained it to him, she told him that it was a prayer to the Mother of God, and that she would protect him always. It was not until his second year at Sorbonne that Hannibal first read the prayer in a vernacular language. In French the words still sounded beautiful, but even then they had no meaning. His own mother had died, and the Mother of God was dead as well, at least to him.

After nearly 40 years of estrangement, Hannibal doubted that she would approach her son on his behalf. Thousands of people died every day. Decent, faithful people, who pleaded with God to save them, but to no avail. Why should Will Graham be any different? No, the prudish bitch would do nothing to save Will. If Will Graham was to be saved, it was up to Hannibal alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Back at the safehouse, after quickly riffling through the various methods he could use to get Will back onto high ground, Hannibal settled for the simplest. He selected a length of 1.5" x 50' high-performance polyethylene rope, found a compact LED maglite, and walked back to the edge of the bluff. Along the path, he unceremoniously stepped over the Dragon's corpse, repressing the urge to stomp his skull into mush. That would have to wait. Will's safety was all that mattered.

According to the clock on the kitchen wall when he looked, it had been 12:33 AM. By that count, it had taken him less than an hour and a half to ascend the cliffside. Will was likely still unconscious. Hannibal inched closer to the edge. He took a deep breath to center himself, and switched on the maglite. Its beam was blue, something of a small surprise. Hannibal had taken possession of the light when he dispatched Beverly Katz, and never used it. It seemed strange that she should use blue instead of the standard white.

Hannibal moved the beam meticulously, covering dirt and rocks and shrubs. Within minutes, the blue light settled on the small, gnarled tree that had been the instrument of their salvation. Quercus petraea, a sessile oak. Its growth on the side of the bluff would have seemed extraordinary to Hannibal, if he had not planted it there himself. The light focused on Will, slumped over the bough like a lion's quarry.

Hannibal saw that he was hyperventilating, his hold dubious, body so saturated with blood that his rose-white skin was wholly occulted. In centuries past, or so he had read, people used to consume generous amounts of arsenic to achieve a similar pallor. Hannibal wished, as he so often did, that he had the ability to read Will's mind. Though matters of the mind were among his fortes, there was no way to know with absolute certainty what he was thinking. Oh, he was confident that he knew, but any margin of error concerning Will was unacceptable. Not so long ago, it had seemed that it was only through the act of physical consumption that he would truly absorb Will, the twain become one flesh.

"Will, I need you to listen. I know that is perhaps the last thing you want to do, but at this moment your life depends upon total obedience." Will mumbled incoherently. Hannibal stuck the maglite between his teeth and uncoiled the rope, wrapping it around his waist. He knotted it so tightly that it broke the skin. The fibers were touted as the most durable on the market. Deep sea fishermen and dock workers swore by it. Hannibal usually put no credence in commercial pitches, but in this case he would have to take a leap of faith. 

He gathered the rest of the rope in his hands. In spite of himself, he muttered a quick prayer before he shone the light down and began to lower the rope. When it reached the bough, Will grabbed it. Without having to be told, he wound a tight knot across his own waist. He clenched the rope in his fists and tugged it wordlessly.

Hannibal began to back up, step by grueling step. The fibers bit into him, exacerbating the pain from his bullet wound. He gritted his teeth and pulled. Will Graham was a welterweight, 145 lbs soaking wet. In typical circumstances that was nothing, a feather pillow; but, weakened by blood loss and pain, combined with the mental strain of Will's possible death, Hannibal was beaten down with exhaustion. 

He pulled and backed up until his knees buckled. "No, no . . ." Hannibal fumbled with the maglite, illuminating the barren ground a bright neon blue. On the edge of the bluff, Will was huddled in a fetal position. Hannibal choked back a sob. He staggered to his feet and sauntered toward Will, a skittish lamb that could bolt at any moment. He knelt in front of him. His heart leapt at the look in Will's eyes.

Will literally threw himself at Hannibal. He clung to him, his body wracked by silent sobs. Hannibal embraced him in turn, one hand stroking his back, the other tousling his thick brown hair, matted with blood and sweat. "Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you for choosing life." Will started, tilting his head back to look Hannibal in the eye. "But I didn't," he sputtered, his voice leaden with reverent irony. "I chose you."


	3. Chapter 3

When Hannibal carried Will into the house and placed him on the bed, he got to work immediately. Will had lost a tremendous amount of blood and was going into hypovolemic shock. Hannibal took a pair of kitchen shears and cut through Will's shirt. He tossed the useless scraps of cloth in the corner. The wound in his shoulder was horrific. The Dragon had buried the knife to its hilt, and hours after the attack the bleeding had not stanched. Hannibal noted with satisfaction that the wound on Will's cheek had more or less clotted. Still, god only knew how many dangerous microorganisms had invaded his body. First, the wounds must be cleansed.

Hannibal picked Will up like a baby and carried him into the bathroom. The porcelain claw-foot tub had been his mother's. Hannibal had restored it and added a shower head shortly after buying the house. Hannibal pulled the shower curtain so roughly that it broke. He set Will on his feet, and allowed him to lean heavily against him. He turned the water on, so cold that Will shrieked. "Wh-what the hell?" he protested, squirming against Hannibal's broad chest. "Hannibal!"

"This is for your own good, Will. No matter what, you must stay awake. You will die if you do not." Hannibal gently turned Will to the side, holding him to his chest as he picked up the bar of soap and washed his hands beneath the frigid flow. Cold water was not the optimum choice for killing bacteria, but the friction would help. Next Hannibal lathered his hands and gently rubbed the area around the wound. When he touched the savaged flesh, Hannibal had to harden himself to ignore Will's screams. He massaged the wound in a circular motion, washing it as thoroughly as he could manage.

Will's screams gave way to groans. Hannibal held Will snugly, pressing a finger to the pulse point in his neck. His heart-rate was still elevated, but improving. "Close your eyes." Will obeyed, and having nothing else, Hannibal lathered his hands with soap and washed the dirt and gore out of Will's hair. He hummed as he washed, a hymn from his childhood as arranged by Schubert. He hummed to calm himself as much as Will, who shuddered at his touch.

When his hair was sufficiently clean, Will moaned and started to fall. Hannibal broke the fall and picked Will up again. As Will steadily lost consciousness, Hannibal stared at the water until it flowed clear instead of red.

* * *

As Will slept Hannibal removed the remainder of his drenched clothes and dried him gently with linen towels. He put him in the bed and covered him to the waist with three layers of silk comforters. 

Reluctant to leave his side even for a moment, Hannibal swiftly undressed. He removed the bullet and dressed his own wound, donned a pair of grey silk pajamas, and gathered the supplies he would need to treat Will's wounds. There was no feasible way he could treat them while Will slept, and the pain of it would be unbearable.

Hannibal woke Will by caressing his uninjured shoulder. His eyes fluttered open, and he frowned. How had he ended up in Hannibal's bed, without any clothes? He shifted in the bed, attempting to sit up. "Stop." Hannibal held the back of his neck, bringing a red Dixie cup to his lips. "Drink this. It will lessen the pain." Will complied, and as soon as he drank the frothy brown liquid, he was catapulted into a dream state. "Drink all of it." Will tilted his head back and swallowed every drop.

He lay back in a daze as Hannibal donned a pair of nitrile gloves. He wound thread through a needle, and stuck it into Will's ravaged cheek. "Ow! Fuck." The abruptness of the profanity caused Hannibal to raise an eyebrow. Will hardly ever swore. Still, a bit of foul language was preferable to tears or moans of pain. Hannibal continued, suturing the gash closed. He bit the last thread with his teeth and chuckled at Will's stunned expression.

"Whoa! What did I just drink?" Will looked at Hannibal in amazement. His pupils were blown, and his mouth hanging open. Hannibal eased Will's mouth closed and pressed an impulsive kiss to his forehead. "What you've imbibed is called 'ayahuasca.' It is a very potent hallucinogenic vine from Peru. Tell me, are you having any hallucinations at the moment?" Will ranted about the things he was seeing as Hannibal covered Will's cheek with gauze, then disinfected and bandaged his stab wound. His most prominent hallucination seemed to be his stepson, Walter, sitting Indian-style at the edge of the bed. He was, according to Will, twiddling his thumbs, smiling at him.

"He wants to know when I'm coming home." Hannibal felt a twinge of guilt. He pretended he had not heard. As he pondered what he should say or do next, Will suddenly sat up and clutched his stomach. "Ugh, I feel sick. . ." Hannibal hurriedly thrust a small wastebin under Will's chin before he vomited all over the bed. He moaned and heaved as Hannibal rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles. When he was finished, Will lay down and closed his eyes, insisting that he was "just taking a little rest."

Hannibal picked up the bin and supplies. Will would sleep for a long time, and Hannibal hoped the ayahuasca's healing properties would extend into his dreams. After the agonies he had endured, the brutal suffering Hannibal had subjected him to, he deserved healing. He required it. 'Maybe, if I had only done this sooner, the dear boy would not have thrown us over the cliff.' Hannibal sighed and turned his attention toward other matters. Will would be ravenous when he woke up.

It was time to get to work in the kitchen.


	4. Chapter 4

Will woke around 6:00 the next evening feeling rested and relaxed. He had confronted all of his deepest fears, from the desperate fear of abandonment that was the only thing his mother gave him to the terrifying realization that he was a killer, and he liked it. The emotions evoked in him as he and Hannibal worked together to slay the Dragon were unparalleled: there had been pain, a psychic agony so debilitating that it had paralyzed him. If Hannibal had not leapt onto the Dragon's back, it would have meant certain death.

Hannibal had come to his rescue without hesitation, while Will had stood idly by as his ultimate adversary, the best friend of his life, lay bleeding out on his own kitchen floor. Why had he just stood there? For all of the lip service he had paid to the idea of wanting Hannibal dead, he knew all along that was untrue - the furthest thing from the truth. 'So then, what do you want, Will Graham?' "You know perfectly well what you want. You're just too much of a goddamn coward to admit it."

Will stood up, straightened the covers, and walked over to the full-length mirror beside the wardrobe to examine his reflection. His complexion was pallid, but no longer moribund. His cheek throbbed. Will traced the edges around the sutures and grimaced. One more scar to add to his generous supply.

A series of sharp knocks on the door interrupted Will's self-pity. "Are you alright, Will?"

"Fine," Will stammered. "I'm fine. You can come in." The last statement was impulsive. Will half-hoped that Hannibal would not accept the invitation. No such luck.

"Alright." The door creaked open. Hannibal walked into the room, carrying a tray with a covered dish. "I brought you something, in case you were hungry." "Thanks, I'm starving." For several moments, Will and Hannibal stood still. Will felt Hannibal's eyes rove over him, leisurely surveying his cheek, chest, and down to his torso, lingering on the scar where Hannibal had eviscerated him. His gaze then descended to Will's waist, the line of dark pubic hair and below. Hannibal grunted as Will blushed, his face assuming the color of an eggplant.

He looked Hannibal in the eyes, struck as he often was by their beauty. A layman would say they were simply brown, but the simplification was almost sinful. Hannibal Lecter's eyes were brown, yes, but they were also red and luminous; marron, as his Cajun grandmother would say - chestnut.

Hannibal cleared his throat. "If you'd like, I'll leave this here for you. You may place the tray out in the hall when you finish." He set the tray down on the bedside bureau and turned to face Will, his expression hopeful, expectant.

"Wait," Will said tentatively. "Please stay."

* * *

"God, that's good!" Will practically moaned as he ate. "This could be your best yet. What did you do? Wait," he added, pointing his fork in Hannibal's direction. "Forget I asked. A magician never reveals his secrets." "A magician . . ." Hannibal drawled, deliberately thickening his accent. "Is that what you consider me?" "No, it's what you consider yourself. As far as I'm concerned, you're a god."

"Is that so?" Hannibal stared at Will in the same manner he had done from behind the glass of his cell, a mixture of anguish and lust. Will shuddered and took another bite to give himself time to think of a response.

The next moment, Hannibal was on top of him. He picked Will up, tossed him onto the bed, and hovered over him. Will was too stunned to move, to think, to breathe. He had spit out the food, an act that normally would have warranted a sound chastisement. But Hannibal seemed oblivious, and that terrified him.

"If I am a god, then you are my devotee. How are you going to show your devotion to me?"

"I . . . I d-don't think -"

"Stop thinking, Will. You think too much." Hannibal sank his teeth into Will's neck, nipping softly, sucking the skin until a purple bruise formed. 

"Mmm, you are delectable," Hannibal purred. He trailed his tongue over the bite marks imprinted on Will's skin. "I wonder what it would be like to take you into my mouth? I want to see the look on your face when you lose control, to taste your very essence." Will grunted and dug his fingers into the Ripper's lank, dark hair, pulling his face so close that he felt the brush of his eyelashes on his skin.

"Careful, Doctor. You keep talking like that, and I won't last that long." Hannibal broke away from Will's hold. He cupped Will's length in one hand, stroking the tip with his thumb. Beads of pre-cum coated the digit, and beads of sweat broke out on Will's forehead as Hannibal licked the moisture off his thumb. "I'll take that under advisement. Well, then." Hannibal undid the buttons of his chef's jacket. He slipped the garment over his head, and folded it neatly over his shoulder. "There," he said, as he lay the jacket on the floor. "That's one obstacle out of the way. Touch me, Will."

Will gulped. He extended a hand and slowly touched Hannibal's chest. He skimmed his fingers through the dark whorls of grey hair, and then abruptly dug his nails sharply into his nipples. Hannibal hissed and grabbed Will's arm, biting down until he let go. Will slid back with a soft curse, rubbing his arm where the marks of Hannibal's teeth were readily visible in the dim evening light. "Geez, I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd hate it so much." "Hate it?" Hannibal grinned mischievously. "Speak for yourself." He returned the favor, pinching Will's nipples until he yelped. "Okay! Okay, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Quid pro quo from now on."

"Very well . . ." Hannibal leaned down, taking Will into his mouth in one swift motion. Will stiffened and closed his eyes as Hannibal pumped his member with one hand, placing the palm of the other on his stomach as he suckled the head. He squeezed until Will was sure he would burst. 

When Hannibal drove his nails into him Will groaned in anguish, a low guttural sound that provoked a groan from Hannibal.

"Please," Will whimpered. "Please!"

"Please what?" Hannibal smiled pleasantly, giving Will's part another squeeze. "What do you want, Will Graham?"

"You know. You know! Please don't make me say it."

"Yes, I do know, Will. I have known for years, but I need you to say it aloud. Acknowledge your desire. Consider it a divine mandate, if you will."

"Oh. . . oh god, I - I want -"

"What do you want, Will?"

"I want you to - I want you to fuck me!" Will bleated. Hannibal stopped, mumbling a string of unintelligible words that could have been blessing or curse. "Forgive me, Will; I seem to have forgotten something. One moment, please."


	5. Chapter 5

Hannibal soon returned with a small blue container under one arm. "Vaseline," he explained when Will raised a quizzical brow. "Right," he nodded sagely. "Of course."

"Of course . . ." Hannibal sat down on the end of the bed. "Now, where were we?" He opened the container and coated his fingers with an ample amount. "Will, please close your mouth. You look like a simpleton. Now, turn around."

"Alright." Will obeyed, fixing his attention on the floor molding as behind him Hannibal doused himself with the jelly. Once done, he pressed a greased palm against Will's buttocks and spread them apart. Will whimpered in anticipation as Hannibal rubbed vaseline around his hole. When the good doctor inserted his forefinger Will sputtered a litany of pleas; when he replaced his finger with his penis Will screamed, a primal shriek that prompted Hannibal to cover his mouth.

"Hush. I need you to calm down. Breathe." Will did, taking several deep, shuddering intakes of breath like a child in the throes of weeping. Hannibal's hand, which he had moved to caress the scar on Will's stomach, slid lower. He cupped his balls, squeezing them as he sank his teeth in the nape of Will's neck. 

Will moaned and bowed his head as Hannibal began to thrust, each movement simultaneously blunt and gentle. Hannibal stroked him, alternately tepid and vigorous, until with a hoarse sob Will came with a violent burst, his seed spurting over Hannibal's hand and the bed sheets.

Hannibal pushed his chin over Will's shoulder. He licked the cum from his fingers, smacking his lips appreciatively. He shifted, turning Will onto his back, growling at the friction on his cock. He kissed Will, brutally pressing him down into the bed as he made his protege taste himself. He thrust once more and reached his own climax, filling Will with his seed. Staking his claim, as it were.

* * *

In the aftermath Will was so spent that he had to be carried into the bathroom. Hannibal drew a bath for two and settled in behind Will. He rubbed his back, captivated by the pale brown freckles smattered across his skin. Will suddenly began to shake, and it wasn't until he snorted unbecomingly that Hannibal realized that he was laughing. 

"I know one thing," he said caustically, rubbing his eyes. "I may have a few notches under my belt, but with you always literally carrying me everywhere, I'm clearly an ingenue. Bedelia was right; Freddie, too."

"Oh?" Hannibal chuckled, pressing his finger into the love bite he'd made on Will's neck. "Is that what they said?"

"They didn't use that exact word, but they were definitely in the neighborhood. Bedelia said I had become your 'bride.' And, as I'm sure you know, Freddie wrote that article a while ago calling us 'murder husbands.' I like the sound of that, actually."

"I'll let you be my bride, too. I'll carry you over the threshold, if you like."

"I'll keep that in mind." Will yawned and leaned back against Hannibal's chest. "After sleeping 14 hours straight, you would think I'd had enough."

"I suppose that's true, but you've been engaged in strenuous activity for an extended period of time."

"Extended? How 'extended' are we talking about?"

"Including the time I stepped out, about two hours. Once you started going, it was hard to make you stop."

"So says the man who pinned me to the bed and nearly bit my hide off."

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself well enough."

His tone was playful, but his very presence suddenly seemed to be diminishing. He stood up abruptly and stepped out of the tub. He held Will's hand and with a gentle tug coaxed him to follow. "We should get dressed. I expect we'll be having a visitor at any moment."

As he got out of the tub, Will pulled the stopper out of the drain. He watched numbly as the water disappeared into the small dark void in a matter of moments.

* * *

"I miss my dogs." Will chewed his thumbnail nervously, desperate to calm the tempest raging inside him. "Molly never was crazy about them, but I'm putting my foot down. Maybe I'll get Walter a beagle puppy for Christmas this year."

"I think that's a good idea." Beside him Hannibal took a drag on his cigar, the last of a pack of Cubans he had stashed away for special occasions. He passed the cigar to Will, resembling a dragon as he exhaled a thick plume of smoke. "Beagles are a wonderful breed. Smart, dependable, and they make decent hunters. Though, if you ask my opinion, they are a bit foolhardy. "

"I didn't ask for your opinion, but thanks." Will passed the cigar back untouched. "What are you going to do? How will you live your life in confinement?"

"As I said before, I will 'live' within my mind palace. For all the minor inconveniences, incarceration has its perks. I will devote myself entirely to art, to reading and writing. It's almost like a stay in a monastery. What about you, Will? What shall you do?"

"The only thing I know for sure is that I'm leaving the Bureau, for good. Nothing's gonna bring me back. No more renting headspace to psychopaths." Will glanced over to see how Hannibal would react. When he didn't, he went on: "Maybe I'll go back to Louisiana, or Florida. I can open up a shop and repair boat motors."

"Maybe so. You should do whatever you want to. You are capable of anything."

"That sounds like something Grammy Graham would say."

"Or Nonna Sforza. Regardless of who said it, it is the truth, Will. Your only true limitations are the ones you place upon yourself."

Will turned Hannibal's words over in his mind. He'd once compared his house in Wolf's Trap to a boat adrift on the sea. He'd long since fallen overboard, now marooned on an island waiting for the rescue ship. He wondered when he'd fallen off: had it been when he killed Tier? When Hannibal disemboweled him and left him bleeding out beside Abigail? Or, had it been in their first meeting, amidst all their talk of taste and associations, when Hannibal had profiled Will so exactly within moments of their acquaintance? Will sighed wistfully.

As he opened his mouth to answer, there was a loud knock at the front door. "Dr. Lecter, it's Jack. Open up."

Hannibal stood, clasping the cigar in one hand. "One moment, please."

He reached down and twined his fingers with Will's.

Will slipped his hand out of Hannibal's grasp. He stood up and walked over to the door. His hand trembled as he put it on the knob. Before he turned it, he looked back for one last glimpse of Hannibal Lecter as a 'free man.' 

As a child, one of Will's favorite stories from the bible had been the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, not so much because they were destroyed. He had always been captivated by the metamorphosis of Lot's wife into a pillar of salt. Given an opportunity to escape, she had nonetheless looked back, stung with a painful longing for what she was leaving behind. Looking back at Hannibal, Will Graham turned into a pillar of stone.

"Goodbye, Hannibal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. I was never sure exactly how this tale would end, but I hope you are content with it... I wanted to stay true to the frenetic pace and unpredictability of the show. 
> 
> The reference to Nonna Sforza alludes to Hannibal's Italian heritage through his mother, Simonetta.
> 
> The last paragraph was inspired by the song "I Should Live in Salt" by The National. The words and meaning are profound, and in the context of pillars of salt and stone, seem to directly portray Will and Hannibal's relationship. 
> 
> Will's transformation into a figurative 'pile of stone' refers to a cairn, a man-made pile of stones used since ancient times as a sort of memorial marker. Teacup metaphors abound, and I love them, but I also think Will could be compared to a craggy cairn. Cracked in places, but still strong and whole.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!


End file.
